Automaton
by March Hare
Summary: A BST vignette in Holmes' POV. A nocturnal vigil prompts an unlikely line of reasoning for the great detective...


Salutations! Hare here, with. . . well, you talked me into it. I had been too afraid to try a Sherlock POV, thinking that I couldn't do justice to him, but due to repeated demands, I've decided to give it a shot. This fic is set between Chapters Six and Seven, right before Holmes leaves for Holland, and explains some of his actions in Chapter Six.  
  
Legal Disclaimer: Don't own nothing but Nona.  
  
Medical Disclaimer: *WARNING!* This story contains both BST (Baker Street Three) and WAFF (Warm And Fuzzy Feelings), highly addictive substances! It is our recommendation that Sherlockian purists and anti-romance denizens please leave the audience at this time. The rest of you, enjoy!  
  
-The Management  
  
~~  
  
Automaton  
  
A BST Vignette  
  
by March Hare, the Mad  
  
~~  
  
It does not make sense.  
  
Over and over I have run the facts through my mind, scouring every possible explanation, but nothing can reconcile my bizarre thoughts, emotions and actions. I have ruled out imperfections in the air. I have eliminated the possibility of errant chemicals in our water supply. I have even liberated Watson's thermometer without his knowledge, just to be certain that I was not ailing. Nothing tangible could explain why I crouched in the shadows late one winter's night, just outside the open door from the sitting room to the bedrooms, and silently watched the sole occupant of the fire-lit room.  
  
Miss Nona E. Brown sat hunched on the window seat, the rug from the sofa draped loosely over her diminutive form as she gazed down at some object cradled in her hands. Even at that distance, I could see that the object in question was the series of small photographs, miraculously colored, that usually resided in her singularly large reticule. I had once temporarily obtained the photographs in much the same manner as I had done with Watson's thermometer, and I knew what the pictures represented.  
  
One was a formal photograph portraying Nona, artfully posed in an attractive, albeit very short, frock, an older woman with enough similarity of features for me to confidently deduce was her mother, an older man I likewise deduced to be her father, and two young men I surmised were her brothers. Contrary to Victorian protocol, the group was smiling widely, belying their rigid poses. They seemed honestly content, even happy.  
  
The other photographs were much less formal. Nona, her hair unbound, in a loose shirt and an extremely short pair of pair of trousers, grinned widely at the photographer with her arm slung around one of the young men in the previous photograph. In another outdoors shot, obviously candid, Nona in similar regalia wielded something similar to a cricket bat, a strange hat shading her eyes as she intently stared outside the boundaries of the snapshot, expecting some occurrence that I would not guess at. In the last, Nona had been captured dozing under a tree in an unknown park, her father gleefully posing with a glass upraised over her prone form, poised to deliver a rather rude awakening.  
  
Caught in mental review, I involuntarily jumped as her low voice resonated through the silent room. "Did you have a happy New Year?"  
  
I slid deeper into the shadows, unsure of my response, until I realized that it was not I she addressed, but the people in the photographs.  
  
She continued speaking as though her voice could carry though the ages. "Did you guys go to Times Square and see the fireworks firsthand? Or did you go up to Grandma's and watch from the living room, with popcorn and champagne? Was Jack able to get leave and come home for Christmas? Our little Marine, oh, we were all so proud, weren't we? Did Greg come up from Chicago, with Karen and little Mattie? Hail, hail, the gang's all here." I heard, rather than saw, her smile. "I'll bet Mattie fell asleep on the living room rug by ten-thirty, didn't he? He's five now, had a birthday since I left, such a big boy. . ." Her voice trailed off and I felt a sudden, inexplicable tension in the upper regions of my chest. "I hope you aren't worried about me," she continued shakily. "I'm doing just fine. I'll bet I know more about cooking and cleaning than Mom does! I had a very nice Christmas, even got to go to the opera a few days ago. That was really special." My chest grew tighter at this admission, but I could not risk movement in a bid to loosen it, reflecting instead on the aforementioned circumstances.  
  
*  
  
The whole affair had truly begun on Christmas morning. I had awoken with my head on my desk, face-first in an equation with. . . how very odd. The rug was draped over my shoulders, and I assuredly had not placed it there. I held it to my face and inhaled deeply, the fragrance of lemon-scented soap revealing the culprit to be Nona. A quick survey of the room revealed that she was guilty of other transgressions. A tiny Christmas tree shone on the dining table, drawing the eyes to two gaily-wrapped packages. Shifting myself from my desk, still wearing the rug, I moved to the table and inspected the evidence more closely.  
  
The larger of the twain was addressed to Watson, so I did not concern myself with it. The smaller, however, bore my name. In other circumstances, I might have first conducted a more thorough examination, but the pull of curiosity was too great. I shredded the decorative paper, fleeting glimpses of gold solidifying into the gleam of a gold-plated pocket watch, really quite lovely. I carefully inspected my new acquisition, turning it in my hands, opening and closing it. No dents or scrapes, no pawn number; it was brand new. Clasping it to a buttonhole, I slipped it into my waistcoat pocket. The difference in weight was noticeable, but slight and not unpleasant. That done, I rose and went to the facilities to perform my ablutions, somehow unable to keep an utterly ridiculous smile off of my face.  
  
The second blow came on my decision to return the sentiment of gift-giving. On consideration of Nona's meager funds, I deduced that the gifts' cost had indeed been dear. I refused to be in her debt; propriety therefore demanded a return of relative cost. Remembering the advertisements for Signor Verdi's opening performance of "Tosca," I hurriedly secured the first box I could. Verdi was a bit sweet for my tooth, but was not without his relative merits. What allowance I had remaining, I turned over to Mrs. Hudson, entrusting the particulars a proper outfit to her.  
  
On the day in question, Nona had been absent the entire day, running some abstract errands. As night drew in, Watson and I both changed into more fitting attire and I took up a post at the head of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson had assured me that Nona's gift lay waiting in her room, and added that perhaps I could include a sentiment of some kind? Unwilling to admit that I had overlooked such a detail, I replied that I had taken care of it and quickly turned to my desk. Pen in hand, I paused for a moment, searching for some appropriate words. My mind came up empty and, after some minutes of pondering, opted for the impersonal, "Merry Christmas, Belated." Not to Mrs. Hudson's standards, perhaps, but better than nothing. The paper in my possession, I descended the stairs and turned into Nona's quarters, seeing the gown on her bed. Mrs. Hudson had chosen well; I have always admired red. Remembering Nona's simple wardrobe of housedresses and Town frocks, I pictured her reaction to such an extravagant confection and, for the second time, a smile rose unbidden to my lips. I placed the sheet of paper over the gown and returned to my vigil at the head of the stairs.  
  
Half an hour became an hour, and I began to fret. Where was she? More of this tardiness and we would miss the curtain! Suddenly, the front door opened and Nona steamed in, her face flushed with cold, shedding her coat and calling out "I'm home!"  
  
"There you are!" I returned, exasperation tingeing my voice. "I was beginning to worry that you wouldn't make it!"  
  
She glanced up at me with her eyes wide. In a surprising gesture, she raised her fingers to her lips and let out a strange whistle. "Woo-hoo! Feast your eyes on the blue-plate special!"  
  
What nonsense was this? Disregarding it, I prodded her towards her room. "Hurry up, Nona, or we won't have time for dinner before the curtain!"  
  
"Holmes, you're talking gibberish! Make sense!"  
  
If only she knew! A third grin, the second in as many hours, surfaced as I retrieved the tickets from my jacket pocket. "Behold, a wonder for the ages! I have procured box seats for the opening performance of Tosca tonight!"  
  
Her face fell as she surveyed her plain gray frock. "Holmes, it's very generous, but I can't go."  
  
To keep up the surprise, I feigned ignorance. "What? I hope you know what you are missing, Nona. Have you ever been to Tosca?"  
  
"No, I haven't, I've never been to an opera, but."  
  
"WHAT?!" I exclaimed. What folly! Was there no entertainment at all in the twenty-first century? "By God, woman, that is abominable! To your room and change; we shall rectify the situation this very night!"  
  
"But I have nothing to wear!" she cried.  
  
Triumph. I stared at her with an air of weary disgust. "Come now, Nona, don't play such woman's games with me. I have absolutely no patience with them. Now be ready to go in half an hour, or don't come at all!" I bravely turned my back on her fury and strode back upstairs, pausing on the landing and leaning over the rail. Removing my new pocket watch, I snapped it open as I heard her door open and began counting the seconds.  
  
There was utter silence for a time, until it was broken by her joyful cry. "Mrs. Hudson! MRS. HUDSON!! Come quick!"  
  
Two minutes and ten seconds. How very gratifying. I snapped my watch shut and went for a quick glass of port from the sideboard.  
  
The third and most damning circumstance occurred on our return from the opera. The evening had been pulled off without any hindrance and Nona seemed to genuinely enjoy her gifts, especially after the third glass of champagne. I really must remember to invest in earplugs the next time she drinks overmuch. As our cab pulled up to Baker Street late that night, Watson clambered out to pay the cabbie and I was about to follow, until I noticed that Nona made no move to follow me. Looking back, I saw that she was quite deeply asleep, sitting against the wall of the cab. As I prodded her gently, she stirred but did not waken. With a sigh of long-suffering, I awkwardly bent and hooked my arms around her, hoisting her up and backing out of the cab, studiously ignoring Watson's amused glances. The December wind bit deeply that night and I tightened my hold in response to her unconscious shivers. By Jove, she was tiny. I would always have to bend over in order to kiss- look her in the eye. What an inappropriate word! How had such a thing entered my mind? Shaking my hear wearily, I blamed the alcohol and carried my burden up the stairs into the house. It was exceedingly odd; I prided myself on observation of minutiae, but I had never noticed the small beauty mark just under the corner of her jaw before. I boasted the ability to differentiate between one hundred and fifty different perfumes, but I did not recognize the fragrance she wore, something light and exotic. Why had my vaunted reason so profoundly failed me in regards to this enigmatic woman?  
  
I bore her into her room and gently deposited her on her bed. She made a sleepy sound of displeasure and shivered slightly, but I was robbed of further observations by Mrs. Hudson, who ordered me out of the room with the authority of any military officer. Routed, I returned upstairs to the sitting room. Watson had retired for the night, but I had no such desires, removing my suit coat, throwing myself into my armchair and reaching for my violin. After at least an hour of aimless thought, I was no closer to solving the riddle that was Nona Brown. I needed to unravel the heart of the problem. Rising from my chair, I returned downstairs and quietly eased open the door to Nona's room. Folly, my mind protested, but I shoved the voice away, silently moving to stand over her bed. She lay asleep on the bed, illuminated by the glow of the moon. Her chocolate-brown hair was loose, colored black in the white light. The arch of her brow was untroubled and the sound of her breath was even. How peaceful she looked, but in truth, she was a pretty little problem. A very pretty. . . little problem. My breath caught in my throat and I fought the urge to cough as I memorized her sleeping form, merely for further study. The arch of her lips as she exhaled, the curve of her small nose, the shell of her ear, the tiny spot under her jaw. . . Suddenly, without any previous thought, I reached up a hand and drew it lightly down her hairline, lingering over the newly-discovered beauty mark, marveling at the softness of her skin. This was not folly, I knew, this was. . .  
  
Madness.  
  
With a start, I withdrew my hand and beat a hasty retreat, shutting the door behind me and going directly to bed. I did not, however, sleep overly much.  
  
*  
  
A quiet sob called me back to the present. Nona drew her knees up to her chest, the fire illuminating her unshed tears. "I miss you guys," she whispered through the years. "I hope you haven't forgotten me, 'cause I want to see you again, Mom and Dad and everyone, I want to go home, oh, God, I want to go home!" With a shuddering sigh, she dissolved into quiet weeping.  
  
The tension in my chest became pain and I gripped the doorframe to stop myself from dashing out. I was seized by the unreasonable desire to take her into my arms, to brush her tears away and stutter through meager words of comfort, to somehow ease her pain and loneliness. Yet, coward that I was, I silently withdrew down the hall and into my room shutting the door and pacing my energy away. Damn these infernal reactions! Why could I not think rationally? What was the cause of my malady? When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Whatever remains. . .  
  
Could I. . . Could it be possible that. . . Perhaps- by God, can I not even think it??  
  
Could I love her?  
  
I ceased my pacing. Absolutely not! I am an automaton, a thinking machine.  
  
*The light in her eyes. . . *  
  
I am nothing but a brain with appendages.  
  
*The sight of her smile. . . *  
  
Strong emotion is as destructive to the logical faculties as guessing!  
  
*The sound of her laughter. . . *  
  
I sank onto the bed in defeat, my head falling into my hands. The heart of the problem was the heart. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. The truth.  
  
I raised my head and voiced the truth aloud, dispelling the last protest of doubt.  
  
"I love her."  
  
God help me.  
  
God help us both.  
  
~~  
  
Hmm, not bad for my second fluff fic. Feedback is very important here, folks! Did I succeed in capturing the essence of Holmes, or should I stick with Nona's POV? Please be honest, but I hope you liked it either way. Still working on MIM, so be patient! See you soon!  
  
REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 


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